Approaching the Hill
by Youarethelightoftheworld
Summary: Some of the best things in life begin on a dance floor.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock turns his coat collar up against the wind and hurries down the steps of the library, hoping that John is already back at the flat. It is late Thursday evening, and based on Sherlock's previous observations of John's study habits, his friend should be halfway through his anatomy and physiology homework by now. Although Sherlock is secretly proud to admit that John is significantly less idiotic than most people at their university, he will most likely need help memorizing the origins and insertions of muscles. Sherlock, as per usual, plans to deny John any help until panic is written all over his frankly adorable face. They've fallen into this playful, unspoken routine, but John should know by now that Sherlock would never let him fail.

The walk back to the flat takes him through campus and past some of the town's busiest pubs, frequented by many of John's ridiculous, supposed friends. Sherlock would never say this out loud, but he knows what true friendship with John is like, and shouldn't that be enough for John? John's associations with The Blundering Idiots, as Sherlock likes to call them in his head, are nothing short of superfluous.

Just as he is working himself into a sulk over these alarmingly recurring thoughts, Sherlock hears his name.

"SHERLOCK! HEY, SHERLOCK!"

The familiar voice is coming from the pub he has just passed. Sherlock doubles back, slightly alarmed, and his eyes fall on the flailing body of none other than John Hamish Watson, Best Friend and Drunken Idiot.

He is in the middle of a dance floor full of people, beaming at Sherlock and dancing like there's no tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock is still staring at his best friend with wide eyes full of surprise and amusement when John calls his name for the third time. Even as he shouts, John continues to move his body as if stillness is not an option. Sherlock resists the urge to cover his ears and block out the cheerful pop song blasting through the speakers. He notes with disgust that the song could certainly be described as bouncy, but John seems to be thoroughly enjoying it. He's doing some sort of dance that consists of jumps and twists while throwing his head back and forth, the grin never leaving his face.

It's horribly endearing.

"C'mon, Sherlock! Get out here!"

Sherlock moves towards John before his brain can catch up with his body and try to stop him in his tracks. Quite frankly, John Watson has always been able to override the voice in Sherlock's head, and before he knows it, Sherlock is standing in the middle of a crowd and trying not to smile at the look of joy on his friend's face.

"Lock, I'm so glad you're here! Wait, what are you doing here? Were you going home? Were you at the library again? WE SHOULD GET YOU A DRINK!"

John's default volume while drunk seems to be even louder than the incessant music, and yet he still moves in very close to Sherlock's ear, rising onto his toes and grasping his friend's arm.

"Lock?!" Sherlock shouts back, moving to grip John's arm and keep him close. "Since when do you call me Lock?"

"My brain just thought it up!" laughs John, looking immensely pleased with himself.

"Well, I despise it!" huffs Sherlock, pretending that his heart hasn't begun to beat a little faster. No one has ever given him a nickname that didn't involve the word "freak."

"Whatever you say, Locky! C'mon, dance with me!"

"You are drunk," says Sherlock matter-of-factly, planting his feet and trying to stand his ground as John attempts to drag him further into the crowd.

"So?" shouts John, winking as he waves his empty glass above his head. "You ought to try it! Anyway, I- whoops!"

John loses his balance as he attempts some sort of complex twirl, and Sherlock moves forward to catch him. Suddenly, John's arms are around his neck and they are nose-to-nose. Sherlock's entire body freezes in surprise.

"This is my favorite song ever," sighs John, much softer than before.

"Is it?" gasps Sherlock, slightly out of breath. John's eyes are alight with laughter and he is staring at Sherlock, leaning into his warmth. Sherlock can smell the evidence of alcohol all over him, but not even that can stop his head from spinning as John presses his body even closer. Sherlock lets his eyes flutter shut.

"I need another drink," murmurs John, moving forward to rub their noses together. It is so quick and astonishing that Sherlock thinks he may have imagined it. And then, he is left standing alone, staring into the crowd and blushing from head to toe.


	3. Chapter 3

John is golden.

This is Sherlock's first observation as he enters his new flat on the first day of uni and finds a boy standing in one of the two bedrooms. His forehead is glistening with sweat as he unpacks his boxes and his hair glows honey blonde in the sunlight. Rugby. Adored by all his peers. Helpful around the house. Top marks in biology. In short, a Golden Boy, and therefore, horrible.

Just as Sherlock decides that he will force Mycroft to purchase him a one bedroom flat, the boy catches sight of him. He smiles and waves, his face lighting up like the sun.

Sherlock's heart skips a beat.

* * *

Sherlock doesn't have friends.

He tried, once. The boy next door had been acceptably smart, and his interest in science had drawn them together. They had spent hours laughing together as Sherlock showed him how to make miniature volcanoes or create stalagmites. But the day came when the boy's curiosity turned to fear, and fear quickly turned to disgust. "Freak!" he had shouted at Sherlock, joining the other boys as they tore apart his chemistry journal one day after class. Sherlock walked home with the remains of his notebook and vowed never to try again.

He doesn't need to try with John. John, with his kind eyes and infuriatingly stubborn tendencies, is determined to be friends with him.

And so, he is.

* * *

Friendship doesn't suit Sherlock. He never bothers to ask John what he would like to do, and he does not wait for him when he leaves. And yet, in those first few weeks as roommates, Sherlock finds that what John wants to do is, in fact, whatever Sherlock happens to be doing. He will not wait for an invitation, and he will run to catch up. When Sherlock remembers to look, he will find John at his side.

Before long, Sherlock becomes brave enough to call John his friend. Secretly, of course, and only in the deepest corners of his Mind Palace.

* * *

And then, John says the words.

They are walking home from class one afternoon and stopping every so often so that John, still the Golden Boy, can say hello to friends. Sherlock's patience is wearing thin. He has matters to attend to back at the flat, and if they don't make it back there soon, the body parts in the fridge will be covered in a layer of frost.

John stops once more to talk to yet another rugby mate. "Sherlock, do you know Mike? Mike, this is my best friend, Sherlock."

Sherlock is so busy deducing Mike's future weight gain that he almost misses it. But as they exchange the necessary, boring pleasantries, the words echo and reverberate through his brain.

Sherlock smiles all the way home, and when John asks him why he is so happy, he tells him that the thumbs in the refrigerator are the perfect temperature for an experiment.

* * *

Three months later, Sherlock deduces his own feelings for John. He finds that he can spend hours classifying John's smiles (there are 32 of them, seven of which only appear when he is with Sherlock), organizing the shades of blonde in his hair by their exact hue, and logging the 120 ways in which he has made Sherlock's heartbeat accelerate.

When John drags him onto the dance floor of a crowded pub two nights later, Sherlock adds number 121 to the ever growing list.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock spends the entire walk back to the flat with one hand grasping John's arm, just in case he decides to try dancing in the middle of the road or jumping over a phone booth. John, of course, spends the entire walk home being utterly ridiculous.

"Carry me on your back!" he shouts, moving behind Sherlock to grip his shoulders. Sherlock tries to keep a straight face as the shorter boy tries and fails to _climb up_ his body.

"JOHN…John…Absolutely not! Get back over here!" laughs Sherlock, reaching behind himself to drag John back to his side.

"Oh fine. You're no fun," sighs John, slumping against Sherlock and flinging an arm around his shoulder. "At least be a bit useful and hold me up, will you?" Sherlock rolls his eyes and settles his arm around John's waist, trying to ignore the warmth that is spreading throughout his entire body.

"Let's just get you home, alright?" he mutters. "You're really going to regret the events of this evening when you wake up tomorrow, you know."

"Of course I'm not!" exclaims John, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "I was with you!"

_Oh._

122.

* * *

When they arrive back at the flat, John falls asleep on the stairs.

"Completely illogical," groans Sherlock, kicking his friend in the shins until he manages to drag himself up the steps. They make it to John's bedroom after only a few short breaks and quite a lot of grumbling. Sherlock can't quite believe that he is putting up with this nonsense, but it's clear that John is in no state to take care of himself.

He removes John's shoes and places them neatly beside the door. John, for no apparent reason, has curled up with his head at the foot of the bed and managed to tangle himself in the sheets without actually covering any of his body. Rather than attempting to untangle him, Sherlock removes his coat and wraps it gently around his friend.

As he tucks the edges of his coat around John's shoulders, Sherlock leans down to watch him drift off to sleep. John smiles contentedly and reaches a hand out, gently brushing the hair off of Sherlock's forehead.

"Love you," John whispers, soft and sure, as if this is nothing new.

And then he is asleep.

Sherlock sinks to the floor, his hands trembling. He plays the words back in his mind, again and again, willing them to linger. He thinks, and he wonders, and he watches John as he sleeps.

He waits for the sun to rise.

* * *

At long last, John opens his eyes.

Sherlock scrambles to his feet, his face ablaze with fierce determination, and announces, "I am going to make you tea."

He marches from the room, leaving John in a state of confusion and amusement. When he returns, Sherlock crawls onto the bed, all long limbs and sharp angles, and hands John the steaming mug.

"There," he states, staring meaningfully at John.

"There?" asks John, staring back with a baffled expression.

"Yes. There," pronounces Sherlock.

"Ah. I see," muses John. "No…I don't. What are we talking about?"

Sherlock looks away, exasperated and suddenly shy.

"What is it, Sherlock?" asks John apprehensively. "Did something happen last night? I'm sorry I got so drunk…I didn't mean to upset you, but-"

"You told me you loved me," Sherlock blurts out, allowing his eyes to fall shut in mortification.

The silence seems to last for days.

"I told you I loved you," says John, slowly and inquisitively. "I told you I loved you…and this morning you made me tea?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath and manages to meet John's eyes, pleading with him silently.

And John understands.

He puts down the tea.

"Come here, Sherlock," he requests gently, holding out his arms.

Sherlock moves as if he is in a dream, his eyes wide and hopeful. And then, he is in John's arms, and John is kissing him, and he really must remember to make tea more often.

* * *

"Wait, slow down," says Sherlock a few minutes later, pausing to catch his breath.

"Why? Are you alright? Do you want to stop?" asks John anxiously, his eyebrows furrowed.

"No! It's just that I've forgotten to count."

John looks into his eyes, confused but affectionate, and does not ask for an explanation. Instead, he moves closer, inch by inch, and slowly presses his lips to Sherlock's forehead, his cheek, and the tip of his nose.

123\. 124. 125…


End file.
